A brief note to the old woman who in all likelihood lives in the bagle shop where I occasionally purchase bagel and lox to get me through a dreary morning...

Dear Agnes:

I have no idea if Agnes really is your name, but for the time being I'm going to hang onto it. It's really much simpler that way, not to mention a great deal more polite than some of the other monikers that have gone through my head when you've been on one of your tears.

This morning, for instance... When you charged the counter and loudly engaged most of the staff in a discussion about getting a(n extension for the) glass panel that separates the food prep from the common rabble, it was obvious that you were very concerned that some strange person (likely one of us in the queue you had barged through) would reach over the counter and somehow contaminate the bagels below. Given that we are living in an age where fear of the unseen has not only remained undiminished, but has been actively flourished, I can appreciate your concerns over E. colibird fluthe "crazies" germs touching your food. You may not be aware, however, that yours were the first hands I've ever seen reach across that counter, and the peculiar and frantic way in which you waved them was more than a little disconcerting.

I can't say for sure, but judging from the number of disappointed faces that left during your rant, my fellow queue-mates were none too anxious to consume the elder fairy dust you were surely sprinkling on their potential breakfasts. Either that, or they were a trifle frustrated that you chose to bring this aparent deficiency to the attention of the staff in the middle of the early morning rush.

Now, this could end with the grousing, but really, I owe you thanks. However unintended a result this may have been, you did allow me to justify running down to Ginza and having delicious maki for lunch, and the salmon was just melting today. Keep up the good work!